50 Shades of Hungrey
by between49and51
Summary: What happens when the arena is one big red room?
1. Prologue

We do not own the Hunger Games. Or 50 Shades/Twilight. Or Braveheart, Chronicles of Narnia, or Lady Gaga.

Lots of language and lots of adult lovin'. Not your mother's Hunger Games.

Enjoy!

* * *

Former soldier Katniss Everdeen-Mellark recounted her struggle for victory in the 74th Annual Hunger Games and revolt against President Snow's dictatorship in what became _The Hunger Games, Catching Fire,_ and _Mockingjay_, which would go on to win the Panem Prize for Historical Non-Fiction. Little did she know that years later, from beneath the rubble, the private journal she kept throughout it all would surface. And within its pages, a smouldering tale of love, lust, and betrayal unfolds...

Before they were hungry, they were...

_50 Shades of Hungrey_

o0o0o

Peeta makes his way up the grassy knoll by the meadow, his wooden leg dragging behind him slightly. I frown from my place at the kitchen window, where I rinse the blood from my hunting knives. Ever since the tiny Rosie started whittling things, we've been running low on wood to keep her occupied. But Peeta doesn't mind, in between the screams.

He looks preoccupied. Unsettled, even. Did he have a flashback down at the bakery? The last time that happened, he'd nearly beaten Haymitch to death with a rolling pin. Our mentor ended up on top of Peeta, pinning his wrists and ankles to the floor. Not bad for an old drunk. But I suspected that there was only so much more abuse that his body could tolerate.

There's something in Peeta's hands. A small package. From the Capitol?

"You okay, sweetheart?" I say as he enters the kitchen, panting.

"Yeah, I...yeah."

"You're not making me feel real confident."

Peeta shakes his head as if to get his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes. Time for an appointment at Ye Olde Supercuts. Back when District 12 was part of the United States and people could afford things, apparently they still liked discounted haircuts.

But I know what the shaking means. Our perpetual game: real or not real? The Capitol memories were waging war on him again.

"It's just that..." Peeta fondles the package in his hand. "This came on the train for me, and I'm not sure what it means."

I take it. Sniff it first. Just because we're back in the bowels of Panem doesn't mean that we haven't had our share of death threats. Me especially. The girl on fire tends to get a few bags of flaming poo. So far, so good.

"Was there a note?"

"Nothing."

As the paper unwraps, I drop the package in shock.

"Do you know?" Peeta says anxiously.

I look at the whip.

Of course I fucking know.

o0o0o

Once Rosie finishes chiseling at the ottoman and we convince her to sleep, I look through the bookshelf. There's the book we made to honor the family and friends that we lost. There are my memoirs. And then there's the sketchbook that Cinna left behind for me. But this one isn't filled with my sad attempts at fashion.

"Katniss, you still haven't told me about the whip."

"I'm trying to process, Peeta. Gosh!"

_Process. _He nods, and a dreamy look immediately fills those blue eyes. I know where his mind has gone. Processed food. Whole grains. White grains. I can see him counting the grains in his head. Counting how many loaves he'll bake tomorrow. He'll be out in minutes. "I'll be in bed soon, I promise," I assure him.

My husband lumbers up the stairs. I listen until I hear the familiar clunk of wooden leg on the floor. He's in bed for the night.  
It's then that I risk pulling out Cinna's gift to me.  
The black book.

I shiver.

When you're reaped, you don't know what you're in for. You vacillate between the unrealistic hope of winning and the desperate wish to just die quickly at the bloodbath so that your family doesn't have to watch you starve or go mad on screen. You wonder what weapons there will be, how crazy your opponents are, and whether or not it will come down to you and your fellow district tribute. If you're so lucky as to live that long.

Call it Panem's largest playroom.

Everything's in that book. Too much. With the bombing and the rebellion, I'd forgotten its existence. When I slowly came out of my catatonic grief, I remembered it. Surely it couldn't have survived when so much - and so many - had been lost. But like that damned cat Buttercup, the thing proved to be invincible.

The Training Center. The cave. All of those things the way they really happened when the cameras were trained elsewhere. After the Games, I had no choice. The cameras would always be on me.

But not then, no.

Because there were two versions of the 74th annual Hunger Games. The one that was broadcast to the districts and most of the Capitol, in which we fought for our lives in the forest. Small wonder what Snow's CGI could do. It could create worlds that didn't exist, distort people's words and looks and even their deaths.

And then there were the Games that were broadcast directly to Snow and select members of his craven cabinet. The real Games.

o0o0o

"Katniss, honey? Are you okay?"

How long have I been sitting here staring at the wall, the book closed on my lap? It's like those first few months back home in District 12 after the war. Hours passed without me moving.

Peeta sits next to me on the sofa and immediately I fall against his chest. After all these years, I still need his warmth. "That weird package really threw you, huh?" he says into my hair.

"Just a tad."

"Want to talk about it?" He pulls back so he can look me in the eye. "You don't have to protect me, you know. In a refreshing turn of events, we're not on the verge of being poisoned, tortured, mauled, or otherwise maimed."

I smile in spite of myself. "It's a whole lot to take in."

He flicks my braid. "Tell me."

Caesar Flickerman, a million years away: _Peeta. Tell me. _

"It might be better if you...read."

"Okay," he says. "But only if you read it with me."

There are several things I'd prefer over reading the true story of our Games. Like Rosie whittling my shin or Haymitch throwing up on his breakfast.

But the time for running away from Peeta has long passed, and so I open the book.


	2. Chapter 1

Today is reaping day and the only thing I really want is a squirrel sandwich. Nevermind the Peacekeepers, the Capitol, or nervous twelve year-olds vomiting off the sides of the unpaved roads of District 12 out of fear. After the awkwardness of today's hunting session in the woods with Gale, the only thing to satiate my nerves will be the nutty aroma of a sparingly fed squirrel.

"How many times is your name in for tesserae?" Gale had asked. He had just thrown a rock at a large bald eagle, hitting the bird in the chest. Bulls-eye. He hoped the feathers would make good mattress stuffing for three of his twelve brothers and sisters. I was excited because Greasy Sae might turn out a nice Bald Eagle stew for the right price.

I counted on my fingers. A byproduct of that stellar District 12 education. "Let's see here... Me, one for my mute Mom, one for Prim, fuck the cat. Times my age. Eh, about 38 times. You?"

Gale shrugged and shielded his face from the sun. "Mom got pregnant again last week. So... 247 and a half. I'm thinking I might pull out okay." I avoided his eyes. Dead man walking. "Yeah... sure."

Of course, it's not as if I _wanted_ Gale to go to The Games. I mean, still, better him than me. But none of us wanted to. It was just the price we'd paid each reaping for our ancestors and their part in the uprising against the Capitol. Seventy-four years ago, thirteen districts had collectively said "nuts to this shit" and refused to play by the rules set forth by the leaders of Panem. And as a result of their hard fought rebellion, the remaining twelve districts pay each year with the lives of our offspring. Yeah. Fuck those guys. How bad could have things been back then for "peace" to now be synonymous with "make your tiny baby gladiator fight each other to the death"? Methinks they doth protested too much.

"Who do you think is least likely to go in?"

I shrugged. "Well, obviously Prim. She can't even put on her clothes correctly, god bless her. She wouldn't last two seconds. And... maybe that creepy guy from our year who sits out in the rain a lot. You know, the baker's kid. What's his name? Peter? Perry?"

"Chip, I think."

"Whatever. Oooh, look a deer!" I set up my bow, Joan of Arc style (minus the syphilis-induced martyrdom), arrow at the nocking point, string against my nose. Breathe. And—

"Penis," Gale coughed.

I lost my focus and the arrow went haywire. "Ass," I shoved at him.

He laughed. "Besides, you can't bring those into trade today, Catnip. You want the Peacekeepers all over your shit?"

"At least they'd notice me," I retort. People often mistake Gale and I for brother and sister. Same dark hair. Long builds. Bodies tight and fit, by way of Panembercrombie and Fitch. But I've often wondered if Gale sees me the way I see him. Instead of the girl who hunts, how about the girl with a decent rack? I knew I had all the right parts thanks to that "Our Bodies, Ourselves" session in Grade 9. Plus, half the girls in our year want to bang Gale. Once, Madge even sent him a pair of her silk panties. Now we use it a flag when we play forts in the woods.

Gale reaches for the bottom of my braid. I gulp. Shit. My erogenous zone. "Of course, I notice you, Catnip. I have eyes. They're also hazel and gorgeous."

"You do?"

Gale nods. "In fact, if I weren't destined to die because of the amount of times my name is in that fish bowl, I'd take you out a proper date. Squirrel burgers, mulled dirt mead - the works! And afterwards, I'd definitely try to feel you up in the back of my Mom's buggy. Chances are, if you don't let yourself go in the next year or so, I'd probably marry you, Catnip. But you already know how I feel about that. Remember what I asked you when we were kids?"

I nod. "Of course, I do."

Goddamn you, Capitol.

o0o0o

I'm so distracted by Gale's hearty and way too late admission that I don't have enough time to make it to Greasy Sae's for my sandwich. Instead, I hurry home to our hovel in the Seam and dress myself and Prim for the reaping. For the most part, Mom stares off blankly into a corner. She snaps out of it long enough to weave my hair into a few braids though, so I guess I should be thankful.

"This sucks," Prim says, petting her mangy kitten. "Tevin and I were supposed to play paper dollies this morning, but then she threw up on all of hers. I hate reaping day."

I kiss her forehead. "You betcha, little duck."

"Can you tuck my shirt in the back, Katniss? I'm just too young and cute to reach."

"Of course."

We make our way down to the square, flanked by our neighbors and friends, the sounds of their vomiting offspring the soundtrack to our promenade. Once we arrive, the Capitol idiots take samples of our blood so we can't run away or, I don't know, have our old ass mute parents volunteer for us instead. I tell Prim to wait with the other youngins and I go stand next to Madge and other hoes from my year. Across the square, my eyes catch Gale's. He winks and bites his lower lip, adjusting a bulge in his tight dress pants. Damn, damn, damn you, Capitol.

Effie Trinket, the District 12 representative from the Capitol, takes the stage. She looks like a painted whore horse. Underneath her gallons of makeup, bad perm, and corset, she might actually look decent. I don't get the Capitol styles or their stupid accents.

"Welcome to the 74th Annual Hunger Games. And may the odds ever be in your favor!" Silence. "Well, let's get started, shall we? We've done away with the usual film about why you guys have to sacrifice your babies to the death. Realized it was bad PR. No matter, I guess. But as I always say, ladies first!" She reaches into one of the two large fish bowls on the stage in front of her.

I clench and close my eyes. Please let it be Madge? Please?

"Primose Everdeen."

THE FUCK?

There's a small gasp from the crowd, the way it is when they've chosen someone far too young and cute. Like a baby seal from District 10 that's about to be clubbed for food. I mean, the fuck? The statistical odds of it being Prim, my Prim, with her stupid kitten that I can probably eat later now. My heart can't take this. As I see her tiny body makes it way towards the stage, her shirt tail fluttering in the wind delicately like a pair of Madge's slutty underpants, I spur to action.

I pull out of the crowd. "Prim!"

She whirls around, sucking her thumb. "Kamatnissssss!"

The peacekeeper grabs her arm and yanks her towards the stage.

Then I say the words no one has ever said from our district: "You cunty sonavabitches. I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

Guess I'm really not getting that sandwich.

I hug Prim and pull her thumb from her mouth. "Listen, you shouldn't take anymore tessarae. Gale will bring you game. Time to grow the fuck up, Prim. You hear me? Grow up. Someone has to make sure that Mom doesn't walk into a wall."

"Katniss, no!"

"I'm sorry, Prim. Put on your big girl panties."

I let the Peacekeeper drag me towards the stage and I take my place next to Effie.

"My, my, my," she says. "So dramatic in District 12. I bet my buttons that was your little sister, wasn't it?"

I roll my eyes, holding back vomit. "Of course it was. You'd think I'd volunteer my life for any of these other idiots? I guess the Capitol education system isn't any better. My mistake."

"What's your name, dear?"

"Katniss. Katniss Everdeen."

"Well then, saucy Katniss. Let's give her a round of applause for her valiant sacrifice, shall we?" Effie starts to clap.

One by one, the crowd voices their silent dissent. A sea of middle fingers raise themselves at Effie and The Capitol. God bless those fuckers.

"Well, I've never!" Effie huffs. "To the boys, I guess." She swirls her hand into the other fish bowl and pulls out another name.

"Peeta Mellark."

Peeta! That's Chip's name! Oh, brother. Five Snow Bucks says I will have to mercy kill him within the first hour. But I realize I do recognize him. Once, when it was raining and Mom was too zonked to make us food for days, I sat in front of the bakery and watched him toss away burnt bread to his family's pigs. Our eyes met. Hunger in mine, pity in his. But instead of walking me a piece of bread in Panem wrap, the idiot tosses one on the ground in my direction. But it was the best soggy bread meal Prim and I have ever had. The boy with bread.

Peeta gapes from the crowd, looking like fish that has flopped itself out of the sea. And Gale, that lucky asshole, faints from not having his name called. Who did he fondle last night to not make that happen? Peeta ambles his way towards the stage and Effie makes us shake hands. I think about crushing them a little to assert my dominance, but there's something sweet about the golden curls that frame his face. It's strange, but as our hands touch, I feel _something_. Like a spark. Could it be love? Could it be vomit? A shock from District 12's shitty electrical wiring? Only time will tell.

o0o0o

Peeta doesn't say a whole lot on the train to the Capitol. He curls up next to the window and sketches pictures of people dying horrific deaths. Once in awhile, a tear drips onto the page. We do meet our mentor, Haymitch, District 12's only surviving winner of the Hunger Games. He won before we were born, but these days, his name is attached more to vodka than victory. As he approaches us, highball glass in hand, he reeks of Panem weed and malt liquor.

We're doomed.

After Haymitch passes out a few times and I practice twirling butter knives, he gives us our first useful piece of advice.

"Get sponsors. When you're starving, or you've been slit from navel to nose, you know what's going to save your life?"

"Jesus," Peeta offers.

"No. The well-timed gift from some bored rich asshole in the Capitol. Food. Medicine. They can send you these packages via parachute while you're in the arena."

I roll my eyes. "Anything else, Yoda?" I ask.

Haymitch points a finger at me. "You know how you get sponsors?"

"How?"

"You don't act like a little shit. Now go refresh my drink. Whatever your name is."

Touche.

o0o0o

Once we reach the Capitol, we're whisked away to be stripped down, washed, devoid of any hair below our necks. I catch the bitch who's doing my eyebrows snicker at the amount of hair removal I need.

I grab her arm. "Don't tempt me. I'm from District 12 and we throw poop at each other."

I'm kidding, of course. Only the babies.

They keep mentioning a Cinna and what they're going to do with it. A cane of some sort, I'm sure. The first wave of breaking down my resistance. These bastards. But I've witnessed enough Peacemaker floggings in the square to know what to expect. It's same way we do with the animals. Preen at them and then prep them for slaughter.

At some point, they shove a piece of paper at me with teeny tiny print on it. "What is this?" I ask, squinting.

"Your NDA," says a silky voice.

"What's a nada?"

"Non-disclosure agreement." He emerges from the shadows of the Remake Center. Tight jeans. Tight black shirt. Tight ass. don't make them like that in D12.

"And I need that because?"

"In the event that you win, it's required that you not discuss what happened during your Games."

"Even though it's been broadcast to all of motherfuckin' Panem?"

He smiles slowly and I'm suddenly glad that I'm naked.

"The Capitol has a way of, shall we say, distorting what's seen. By the by, I'm Cinna." He extends his hand. "Believe me when I say that it's a pleasure to meet you."

o0o0o

I'm enjoying the way Cinna's gold-lidded eyes run over my hairless body when he has to ruin the moment by asking, "How well do you know Peeta?"

"I don't, really." Minus the burned bread and dandelions in the spring. The usual.

"You do know that boy wants to bone you, don't you?" Cinna says smoothly. "Haymitch told me."

_Bone. _I search my mental catalogue of Hunger Games combat. Choking, wrestling stabbing, blowing-out-brains-via-axe-and-force-field. I can't remember anything with bones, besides the year that the arena was a dungeon. The tributes had to figure out which skeletons were mutts, and which belonged to the unlucky tributes of Games past. Prim had cried so much, I considered bottling the tears and using them for our mother's garden.

When I don't respond, still figuring out how Peeta is plotting to kill me and why Haymitch hasn't warned me, Cinna tries a different tract. "Do you have a boyfriend back home?"

I think of Gale. "No."

"Oh, good. So there will be nobody to mind, then."

Mind? My best friend sure as hell had better _mind _if I'm getting my brains beaten out by bones.

"Now, I'm not allowed to give hints about the arena to my tributes. But I won't be able to sleep at night unless I tell you this." Cinna leans close and I inhale the smell of soap and sandalwood. "You can't go into the arena a virgin."

"I'm not," I say. "I mean, I know that it's different when it comes to people, but I'm sure that either way, experience will pay off."

"When it comes to people? As opposed to-"

"Deer. Rabbits," I say curtly. "Any animal, really. Why discriminate? They all serve the same purpose at the end of the day."

If Cinna's eyes open any wider, they might pop out of his skull. And here I was thinking he wasn't like the rest of the Capitol idiots.

"Besides Buttercup. My sister wouldn't let me get my hands on him."

"Buttercup," Cinna repeats.

"The family cat. That bastard."

"I suppose I can't really fault your sister..."

"What do you think we are in District 12, barbarians?" I say. "That's why I'm always out in the woods. It's how my family survives."

Understanding slips over Cinna's face like the sunrise. He draws in a deep breath. "Katniss, by 'virgin,' I didn't mean whether or not you had killed someone. I meant sex."

"Sex," I repeat, unsure of the word. "Oh." I mean, between trying not to starve to death and raising Prim, I hadn't thought about it much. Okay, maybe a little. Gale had filled out between fourteen and fifteen and I wasn't blind. I'd considered how his plush lips would taste against the crevices of my body, somewhere between all of the animal murder and brother and sister comparisons. But I'd never acted on those feelings lest I make things awkward between me and my best friend. But now, in this tiny metallic room, under the heat of this mood lighting, I can't deny that Cinna's words have stirred something deep within me, something I thought dead until the weight of these horrible games. With his delicate eyeliner and bulging muscles, Cinna is kind of a SILF. Stylist I'd like to –

"Katniss."

My eyes glaze over. "Yeah?"

"I want you to be prepared... for anything."

"Anything?"

Cinna steps forwards and toys with the bottom of my braid. "Everything."


	3. Chapter 2

"So what are the costumes this year? What angle are we working? Coal miners? Depressed hobos?" For a boy who was downright weeping on the train, Peeta is a little too into the Opening Ceremony for my comfort.

Cinna shakes his head. "So pedestrian. This year, we're going for a look that's countercultural yet recognizable."

Peeta works this over. I'm too busy wondering what's beneath Cinna's slim black jeans. "So...happy hobos," Peeta determines.

"Done five years ago. Not retro enough." He gestures for us to follow him to a dark corner of the Remake Center. I happily oblige. "First of all, you'll be riding bicycles."

"No chariots?" I say.

"Budget cuts. Second, you'll be, shall we say, without much need for costume."

"Naked," I mouth to Peeta, who flushes.

"The human form is a beautiful thing," Cinna continues. "Especially when it's on fire."

o0o0o

Sure, the crowd cheers for the Careers. They're pretty much required to.

And they fucking lose their shit when Peeta and I ride in on a tandem bicycle, naked but for the flames that cover every inch of our bodies. Can't blame the crowd for screeching, "Do me, District 12!"

I can't actually see through the film of smoke and carbon monoxide in my eyes, but if I could, I'd bet that we look downright dangerous. Lethal. Ready to win.

Or insane. That, too.

o0o0o

As if we weren't already thrilled enough to be here, and bewildered by our training sessions that consist of oiling our bodies, learning how to give massages, and stringing beads (who ever killed someone by bead?), Seneca Crane has another twist for us. I hope it has something to do with a bow and arrow. Of course, I am wrong. It involves something else. Brains.

He deigns to speak to us after the first training session, breaking the fourth wall as it were. "Tributes. From observing you, you are an exceptionally astute and physically prepared group this year."

"A-toot?" the District 1 girl, Glimmer, wonders behind me.

"Which means that it's up to your Head Gamemaker to make sure that the challenges fit your abilities. For the first time, your Victor will not only outlive his or her opponents, but outsmart them as well. Because to win, the password must be spoken. Or the safe word, if you will."

We all wait. Seneca watches us.

"What's the password?" Cato, the hulking psychopath from Two, finally says.

"That's up for the Victor to reason out."

"Do we get any hints?" asks Rue, the small and sweet tribute from Eleven.

"That will depend on the generosity of your sponsors, should you have any." He winks.

Seneca probably hoped for applause or delighted gasps. Instead, he has to duck a spear. "Fuck this shit, bro!" Cato shouts. "If I wanted to figure out a password, I would have applied to Panem U."

"Yeah!" Mar-what-the-fuck-his-name-is says. "What's with all the cloak and dagger? Matter of fact, where the hell are the daggers? I haven't stabbed anything all day, damnit!"

And so Panem's best and brightest return to punching blow-up dolls and tossing small objects that our trainer called "plugs." Peeta tries to wow the Gamemakers by throwing the plugs as high as he can to the rafters. It's a nifty trick until they rain back down, pelting him. He would have moved out of the way, I'm sure, if he hadn't been staring at me. Again.

o0o0o

"Are you sure I have to be naked for this?" I'm lying under a silk sheet on top of down comforter. For the next part of my training, Cinna has asked me to meet him at his Games' apartment. It's one room with a bed in the middle, with a small kitchen and bathroom off to the side. Jazzy sounds play from a small record player near the bed. Apparently, Cinna is into vinyl. He's so worldly.

"Would I ever lie to you, Katniss?"

_Hmm. _Well, given that I just met you and you're entwined in all this Capitol messiness, I'd say that the odds were in the favor of being dicked over.

Cinna crosses the floor of his apartment, pulling his fitted black shirt over his head. He tosses it aside. "I will always look out for your best interest, Katniss. If I could bet money, I'd put my money on you. But I'm a recovering gambler so I try not to dabble anymore. And stay out of the Capitol Harrah's."

"You'd bet on me?" I say. So much faith. So little chest hair.

Cinna unbuckles his pants. "I'm counting on you. My girl on fire." His body is lean and chiseled, the color of soft caramel. Until the smooth glow of his apartment lighting, he looks like a celebrity from one of the Capitol music videos. Lenny something-something. Not important at the moment. Down to his boxer briefs, he crawls towards me on the bed like some sort of golden panther. Animals, I understood. Their movements and mindsets, all leading to that languished moment right before the kill.

"Girl on fire?" he says, pulling the sheet from my body.

"Yes?" I answer, a little weak.

"Let's see what you're made of."

o0o0o

I am naked. Stark naked, in Cinna's bed. And for some inexplicable reason, I am frozen. Like a deer-muttation-hybridcreaturething caught in the headlights of those fancy hovercars they drive in the Capitol.

Cinna leans in, one knee on the bed, then the other. Panther, panther on the prowl. I've only seen pictures of them from the old world, but Cinna's languid form is what I imagine them to be like. He crawls slowly towards me, the soft cotton of his boxers riding up against my ankle, then my calf. I feel it, hardening against my leg, like one of those sausages at Greasy Sae's that I can't afford. I smell the muskiness of his body, feel the heat radiating from it. I am drawn in. Captivated. Intoxicated. All of those fancy words.

But I am terrified.

"Katniss," he whispers, somewhat gently, and I feel he's onto me, sensing my hesitation. Sex. It's not like it's hard, right? But I am the baby gazelle to his lion. How odd. He takes my hand, kissing it, then presses it against his chest. His skin is soft and smooth to the touch, and I find myself suddenly tracing the outline of his collarbone, as if I'm a child and he's a piece of Capitol artwork that I long to run my fingers across.

My fingers slowly travel south, across his chest, past his navel. His breathing quickens. I feel it again, this time on my thigh, as he pulls himself in towards me.

My hand pauses at the waistband of his boxers, and I find myself biting my lip, like some trollop. Shit.

Cinna suddenly inhales sharply. Is he a fast shooter or something? Damn that Panem infertility. "Do you have any idea how captivating you are? My girl on fire…"

Oh. Thank Christ. Captivating? Me? Ordinarily I would scoff, laugh, possibly hit him because I'm violent like that. But in this moment, I find myself similarly captivated, like those baby deer I like to kill in the woods. I'm drawn in by the intensity of his stare as he draws nearer, and nearer. What the shit is he doing? His lips brush against mine, kissing me, softly at first, then more aggressively like he's trying to motherfucking melt my FACE. I respond in kind, pushing and pulling as if we're engaged in a game of tug of war (imagine that, war in the Capitol) until he breaks free suddenly, gasping for breath. Did he implode?

Then his lips are against my neck and his hand on my knee, slowly moving up my thigh. I'm confused by the flush of heat that passes through me like a wildfire. When Mom treats people from the clap at our house with her mute nursing kills, the men with the clap say they feel like this. Shit. Did he give the clap? Should I have not gone hunting during those District 12 Sex Ed classes?

Cinna's hand glides further and further north. Thanks to his team's expert waxing ability, I feel every sensation of his touch. So there is a purpose to all the pain, I think. Bless them. My fingers reflexively dig into his waistband.

His breath is in my ear. "Pull," he murmurs.

I obey. Because... shit.

Cinna wrestles free of his boxers, and I snap back to reality, abruptly aware of the impending situation, and grateful for the darkness that looms over us, casting our bodies in shade. He's going to stick that scary pokey thing in my hoohah. That's like fighting words. My pulse quickens. Cinna brings his chin down towards mine.

"Are you ready?" he whispers.

I hesitate. My body appears to nodding, practically shouting in agreement, but something's holding me back, tugging at my mind. A faint memory.

I'm abruptly transported back into the woods of District 12.

o0o0o

It is the morning of the reaping for the 72nd annual Hunger Games. I am fourteen, and Gale is sixteen, though even then, he'd pass for older. It's been a long morning at the hunt, and we haven't turned up anything. Gale blames the thunderous racket from the scores of Capitol hovercraft that have begun to infiltrate the skies.

We've resigned ourselves to the fact that we've failed. Not that it makes a difference, anyway. In a few hours, we'll be reaped, regardless.

It's an overly humid, hot day, and we've taken respite in the shade of a large oak. My ears are still primed for the sounds of a crackling leaf, my bow at the ready, but Gale has clearly given up. He tosses his equipment aside in frustration, then picks up a rock and hurls it into the woods with all his might. It clatters against a nearby tree loudly.

I drop my bow and sigh. "Thanks. You've probably just scared away what little's left out there."

Sure enough, I watch as a small squirrel scampers down the nearby tree and off into the distance. Too small anyway, I think. Not worth a wasted arrow.

I sink down to my knees and lean against the trunk of the oak, wiping at the beads of sweat running down my brow with the sleeve of my jacket. Gale kicks at some invisible enemy.

"You're in some mood," I observe. He glares at me, then breaks out into a slow grin. He's laughing hysterically, pointing at me.

"What? What is it?" I demand.

"Your-your face!" he gasps. He lumbers drunkenly towards me, consumed by his laughing fit. My hands paw at my face, trying to find the aberration. There's nothing different. I narrow my eyes at him as he leans down toward me, finally catching his breath.

"I'm glad you find my face so amusing."

He's still grinning. "You have mud on your face," he says. "Here." He reaches his arm out, running his thumb across my cheek.

I suddenly feel self-conscious.

"There. It's gone." His voice is softer than usual.

"Thanks," I mutter, looking away. Gale sits down next to me. We spend the next minute in silence. Why is this so uncomfortable? I feel the urge to say something, anything, just to fill the silence.

"My name's in there 14 times today," I say finally. "One for every year of my life, I guess. That's got to be lucky, right?" I force a laugh.

Gale doesn't take the bait. He picks at the leaves of an errant plant vine, tossing the pieces aside one by one.

I look up at the sky, estimating the time by the position of the sun. "They'll be starting soon. We should make our way back." I stand up, gathering my bow. Gale follows behind me as I make my way through the forest.

"Catnip," he says a few minutes later, and it's almost like a question.

"Yeah?" We continue our hike.

Suddenly, his hand is my wrist. I turn towards him, caught off guard.

"Promise me something," he says.

"What?"

He looks at me intensely.

"If we make it through this, if we make it through this reaping, and the rest of them…" His voice trails off.

"Yeah?" I say, a little too loudly, frustrated by his sudden melodramatic turn. When he doesn't answer, I prod again. "What?"

No response. I look up at the sun. "Gale, we have to go."

He concurs, and we trod along. I breathe an internal sigh of relief that the awkward moment is over.

But then I don't know if it's my imagination, or the weight of the upcoming events resting heavy on my shoulders, or that my consciousness is fading from my rapidly growing hunger grown out of a fruitless hunt, but I swear I hear him utter two words, almost imperceptible, in the distance behind me.

"_Marry me." _

o0o0o

Suddenly I'm transported back into the now, back to Cinna's muscular arms, as if I left them temporarily by hologram. How could I do this to Gale, and our potential romp in the woods? If he could see me now, intertwined in the arms of this golden GOD, what would he think of me? Then, Cinna licks my lower lip a little. "Fuego," he says.

There's only one way this is going to end.


End file.
